Brook stopped to listen to the music. “This is the Beatles, but it’s not the Beatles.”
“Wilson Pickett’s recording from 1968 in Muscle Shoals, Alabama.”
“You’re into Pickett?”
“As much as the next guy.” Reevis oiled a frying pan and tossed the meat in with some garlic. “But the real reason I love this version is the big crescendo at the end when an unknown session guitarist from Florida nicknamed Skydog blew everyone away with an insane riff. Nothing like it had ever been heard on an R-and-B record. And today, that precise moment three minutes into the song is called the birth of Southern rock. Eric Clapton called it the best guitar solo he’d ever heard, so he tracked down Skydog, learned his real name was Duane Allman, and invited him to play guitar on Eric’s next album that they recorded in Miami.”
“Now you’re definitely reminding me of our mutual friend.”
“With good reason. Follow me.”
They set all the stove dials to simmer, and Reevis headed back to the bedroom.
“I’ve already seen this,” said Brook. “Mattress and clock.”
“Not everything.” Reevis opened the slat accordion doors to a closet.
“Good God,” said Brook. “Look at the size of that bookcase. There’s certainly no downsizing here.”
“I’m blocking it from distraction with the closet doors,” said Reevis. “But a few things I just can’t get rid of.”
“Few things? This is the biggest reference library on Florida I’ve ever seen, including music and movies.”
Reevis pulled a plastic CD case off the shelf and handed it to Brook.
“The Duane Allman Anthology? Him again?”
“No, open it. That’s how I learned the trivia I just told you in the kitchen.”
“There’s a letter tucked in here.” Her lips moved silently as her eyes flowed down the page, then she read aloud as she reached the bottom. “. . . ‘Shortly after the ‘Hey Jude’ session, Duane returned to Jacksonville and formed the Allman Brothers Band.’” Her eyes suddenly shot up to Reevis. “It’s signed ‘Serge’!”
“He sends a package every week,” said the reporter. “Sometimes the return address is in the middle of Lake Okeechobee; sometimes the governor’s mansion.”
“You’ve been in contact with him?” Ultra-urgent now. “How is he? What’s going on? Why didn’t you tell me? When did—”
“Stop.” Reevis shook his head. “I don’t know a thing. The parcels just arrive. Sometimes there’s a note but nothing specific.”
“What kind of stuff is he sending you?”
Reevis looked sideways. “Pretty much that whole bookcase.”
“That’s it? But why?”
“I think he fancies me as some kind of protégé he’s mentoring.” The reporter idly pulled down a pictorial book on the Sarasota architecture of Paul Rudolph, then a spiral-bound sailing guide to the Keys with aerial photos of Adams Cut and Tavernier Creek. “It almost has a fatalistic aura, like he needs to pass this knowledge down to an heir. Do you think he’s okay?”
“Serge isn’t close to okay,” Brook said with a smile. “I sometimes worry.”
“You two used to have a thing, didn’t you?”
“More like I had a crush, but nothing developed. Then I met you.” She held one of his hands. “Don’t give that history another thought.”
“I don’t. I considered him a good friend, too.” Reevis closed the closet. “I’ve thought about trying to find him, but all I have is an old cell-phone number.”
“Why don’t you call it?”
“Come on.” A knowing look. “From what we’ve learned about him since our ordeal in Key West, he would have been caught five times if he used anything except a series of disposables. And this number is a year old.”
“It’s odd, but until this very second I didn’t realize the impact he had on both our lives.”
“He’s the reason we met, after all,” said Reevis.
“The reason we’re together,” said Brook. “Like a couple that first bonds at a showing of their favorite classic movie.”
“Or teaching me his favorite Latin recipes.”
Their eyes suddenly locked.
“Dinner!”
Reevis ran into the kitchen and fanned the smoke. Brook opened the windows. “What’s it look like?”
“Just a tiny bit burnt.” He began scooping rice and beans and Cuban meat stew onto plates.
“You don’t have a table,” said Brook. “We eat standing up?”
“No.” Reevis opened the door under the sink.
“Wicker trays?”
“Matches the patio chairs.”
Moments later, they sat side by side, sopping up tomato sauce with the thick bread. Brook chewed and looked toward where a TV normally would have been. “I didn’t notice the poster before. Isn’t that some kind of famous work of art?”
“Serge again. Came rolled up in a mailing tube.” Reevis munched a plantain chip. “Watercolor called A Norther, painted in Key West in 1886 by Winslow Homer. Now it’s my favorite painting of all time. I picked a spot in the apartment where I’d see it a lot.”
“So instead of watching TV, you sit there each night and watch the painting?”
“Simplify.” Munch. “My nerves need it these days.”
“You need to figure out what to do with those crazy producers of yours,” said Brook. “Never seen you so stressed.”
“Figured I’d get out in front of this thing by advancing my own stories before they can come up with more inane ideas of their own.”
“By the way,” said Brook. “Thanks for your coverage of the police forfeiture case I’m handling. Public opinion isn’t supposed to count, but judges are still elected around here. And you drummed up a lot of new business for the firm.”
“That whole fiasco was constitutionally reprehensible,” said Reevis.
“Still waiting for our day in court,” said Brook.
“Working on anything else that I might be interested in?”
“You’ll be the first to know.”
Sunlight prematurely departed outside the apartment’s jalousie windows. Floridians know the drill. Most rain will play itself out in minutes. But when the sky turns purple, and palm fronds are already flying in the wind before the first drop has fallen, hang on to your hat.
“I hope the car windows are up,” said Brook.
“I love these storms,” said Reevis.
The downpour crashed into the sea grapes and banana trees with a crackling roar, and the living room grew dark.
“Maybe turn on a light?” asked Brook.
“Have a better idea.” Reevis grabbed something else from the cupboard and struck a wooden match. A dim glow flickered high up the walls.
“A Santería candle?” asked Brook.
“Went shopping at this colorful market in Little Haiti,” said Reevis. “I was this close to buying a live chicken and making arroz con pollo for you tonight.”
“What stopped you?”
“At first I thought it would be the ultimate gesture in simplifying my life,” said Reevis. “But as I mulled the implications of the bird process, it only seemed more complex.”
“You . . . entertain me. That’s important.” Brook looked fondly into his eyes.
“Listen to what’s happening out there,” said Reevis. “It’s really beautiful.”
They returned to their final bites of Cuban cuisine. Then it was that kind of quiet and stillness of air like when the electricity goes out. The pair oddly found themselves coupled together as they silently watched the show going on in the Winslow Homer painting.
Outside the apartment windows, palm trees yielded in a dark and overbearing sky. In the painting, same thing.